Rules Number One and Twelve
by Keryl Raist
Summary: Gibbs, Ziva, tight leather clothing, and a Goth bar. What could possibly go wrong?
1. Chapter 1

The Case

Gibbs does not dance. At least not when sober, and when he's not sober, well that's an entirely different story for a very different day.

Gibbs does have sex. Not as often as Tony, but he's not a monk by any stretch of the imagination either. He's quite fond of sex, but he's also over fifty, so once or twice a week does just as well as once or twice a day used to. And, unfortunately, it's been much longer than a week, or for that matter, a month.

Gibbs is not a fan of leather clothing. At least, not on him, well, excluding belts and shoes which really should be made of leather. It's not that he's some sort of animal right's guy, it's just that it's not terribly comfortable, and he's old enough to appreciate comfortable.

All of these things are relevant because he is currently sitting in a booth at a Goth club with Ziva on his lap and Abby dancing (Well, she claims it's dancing, it's not anything he'd call dancing. And it is most certainly not something he will join in on. However, it does look quite a bit like sex, which he's not unappreciative of.) with two other girls a few feet in front of them. He is wearing eye liner, lipstick, leather pants, and for as much as Ziva on his lap is a nice sensation, he'd rather be pretty much anywhere else right now.

Including trading places with McGee, currently in the hospital having his appendix removed.

Three hours ago, he was checking Ziva's sound equipment while watching Abby apply makeup to McGee. McGee was surprisingly (Or maybe not, this is a guy who goes by the name Elflord on occasion.) compliant with the current assignment. Namely, accompany Abby and Ziva to the Camaria Club and try to lure out a woman, name unknown, but he knew that the team was calling her "Freaky Vampire Chick," who was more than just a suspect in the ritual exsanguinations and mutilation of three Marines.

At least, he had seemed rather compliant. Abby had done a decent job of turning him into something that might pass muster at the Camaria Club. His hair was black and spiky. His skin was chalky white. (In retrospect Gibbs realized he never saw Abby apply any whitening make up to Tim, and that should have been his first clue that this night was not going to go as planned.) She was in the process of applying a rather intricate fake tattoo of an Ankh to his neck when he broke out into a sweat, clutched his side, and toppled off the stool he had been seated on.

Three minutes after that Ducky had declared that Tim needed to get to a hospital now, because he was probably about to perforate his appendix, and that would be a bad thing.

Ducky had gone with Tim, and Gibbs had spent several moments explaining to Abby that if they did not go get this woman tonight, then it was very likely that tomorrow there would be yet another dead Marine. Once Abby had been dissuaded from going to the hospital with Tim, Gibbs was left with another problem. He had two options, he could get made up himself, or send in Palmer. That decision took all of two seconds, Palmer wouldn't be any use as backup for Abby or Ziva. And, although he was certain Ziva could take care of herself, he didn't want to stick her with two untrained, untried, and potentially dangerous to her should either one panic, team members.

What he really wanted to do was strangle Tony for taking the week off. Really wanted to. His fingers were itching. And yet, there was nothing to be done, he couldn't even call Tony back from wherever he had gone. NCIS mandates a certain amount of time off, and if Tony didn't voluntarily take this week off, he was going to be put on leave by the Director, and in her words, "Barred from the building until he had used up each and every single unused vacation day he had accumulated." Even Gibbs could accept that one week off every five years was a better deal than having Tony banned for the next eight weeks.

So now, while Tony frolicked in a bar on a tropical beach somewhere, and Tim was blissfully unconscious, Gibbs was sitting in a booth in leather pants vastly tighter than anything he would wear of his own free will. He was having a very hard time not touching his eyes, the eyeliner and mascara that Abby put on him bothered him much more than he wanted to admit.

Ziva was sitting on his lap, trying to look sexy, submissive, and undead. (Gibbs had to admit that she did look good, it was just that to his tastes she had on about ten pounds more make up than necessary. However, the tight little lace bustier thing Abby had put her in contrasted nicely with the black leather collar. And the cleavage, just under his nose, was lovely as well. He mentally smacked himself on the back of the head and recited Rule Number Twelve. Twice.) Ziva lowered her head, bit him below the jaw, and then moved her tongue up to his ear. He shivered, and mentally recited Rule Number One, the original version, while trying to think of the correct response to Ziva's actions.

"Entering from the back. Black clothing, too much make-up, curly hair, necklace of what appears to be human ears…" she whispered while licking his earlobe.

He turned his eyes toward the door she had indicated. "I see her. You get that Abbs?" He wrapped a hand around the nape of Ziva's neck and kissed her, trying his best to look something like the other necking Vampire fetish couples around them. He kept his eyes on Abby as his mouth moved over Ziva's. Once more Rule Number Twelve rang in his mind.

Abby, without missing a beat from the writhing, grinding, dance thing she was doing signed at him from behind her partner's back, "Yes. When the music changes I'll ask her to dance."

"Okay. Be careful," he whispered against Ziva's lips, the mic in her collar transmitted the sound to Abby.

"No problem," Abby signed back to him.

Ziva shifted from sitting across his lap to straddling him. He gave her a very brief quizzical look, and she gave a fast nod to the smoked glass wall behind them. She could watch everything in the room without attracting any attention.

"Gibbs, move the table further from the booth." He felt around with his foot, found the pedestal that the table rested upon, and slid it a few inches back. She leaned back until her back rested against the edge of the table, and nodded quickly at him again while straightening up. She had enough room to get out of that booth fast if need be.

Gibbs realized that, had anyone been watching, it now looked quite a bit like he and Ziva were screwing away in that booth. He also realized that had anyone been looking at his face, they'd never buy it. He lowered his face so that his forehead pressed against Ziva's shoulder and moved his hands from her back to her buttocks.

"Be my eyes, Ziva."

"I did not think your vision was that bad." Part of him was very grateful that she was willing to joke at a time like this. Part of him was repeating Rule Number Twelve like a mantra, along with the original version of Rule Number One, because she had figured out why his face was hidden, and had added a grinding motion of her own to the sexual façade they were presenting. Part of him was very happy that these pants were so tight it was physically impossible to get an erection, let along poke a subordinate with it.

"My eyes are fine. It's my acting that isn't up to this."

"You are doing fine. Much easier to work with than Tony."

He chuckled quietly, memories of listening in on Tony and Ziva as a married couple lightened his mood, he almost risked looking up at her. "You think?" He couldn't see anything besides her the tops of her breasts, inches from his nose, but he was hoping she was smiling at him.

"Abby is moving towards the target."

He lifted his face and began to nibble her shoulder, leaving a line of little pink bite marks. He hoped they'd only be little pink marks, explaining a line of hickies on Ziva's shoulder to Jenny really wasn't on his list of fun things to do. Especially since Jenny was intimately acquainted with both versions of Rule Number One, and the reason for Rule Number Twelve. This position allowed him to watch Abby without showing too much of his face.

"Remember Abbs, you need to get her to touch your outfit." Once more the mic in Ziva's collar transmitted his message to Abby.

"Gibbs… it was my idea to wear shiny black vinyl so that I could get her prints on me. I'll get her prints, match them in the van, and then you and Ziva can swoop in, cuff her, and put her away for a long, long time. By the way, you two look really hot over there. Keep it up."

"Thank you, Abby. But 'hot' is the last word I would use to describe this. I am freezing in this tiny little dress."

"Then snuggle in closer to Gibbs, he looks plenty toasty. Now quit your chattering. I've got a vampire to seduce."

The next five minutes were an exquisite torture for Gibbs. Between Ziva's slow steady gyrations, the warm soft feel of her ass in his hands, and her whispered commentary on exactly which bits of Abby Freaky Vampire Chick was touching he was getting dangerously close to mortally embarrassing himself, exceptionally tight pants or not.

"Abby's leaving," Ziva whispered against his temple. "The suspect is heading towards the ladies' room." Ziva began to move faster on his lap, and began to make small moaning sounds. Rationally, he knew she was looking to end the performance and follow Freaky Vampire Chick into the restroom to keep an eye on her. The part of his brain that was in charge of his hands had other ideas. He found himself clutching her, pulling her tight to him, and kissing her fiercely.

He didn't know how long the kiss lasted. He hoped it wasn't too long. He was sure that if they lost the Freaky Vampire Chick because he was playing tonsil hockey with Ziva he'd have to shoot himself in the head, because there wasn't a slap hard enough to make up for that kind of mistake. But, after some bit of time, he broke the kiss and slumped back in the booth, trying to look post orgasmic and hoping he hadn't just blown the case. Ziva spent a second or two pressed against his chest, which, he had to admit was also rather nice ("Rule Number One: Do Not Screw Your Partner! Rule Number Twelve: Do Not Date Your Partner!" ran through his thoughts over and over and over again.) and then she slid out of the booth and followed the suspect into the ladies' room.

He reached for the drink he had ordered when they entered the club. Bourbon, neat. He knocked it back, closed his eyes, spent another moment slumped against the booth. He didn't see Freaky Vampire Chick anywhere, and he was about to ask Ziva what was up when he heard her voice through his earpiece.

"That is a lovely necklace you've got. They look so real. Are they latex?"

He sighed deeply. Ziva was talking to the suspect. "Abbs, what do you have for me?" This time his own mic, located behind the top button on his shirt, broadcast to Abby.

"Nothing yet Gibbs. But… OK… I've got two more prints lifted, and the computer's about to do it's magic. I should know in less than a minute."

"Faster Abbs."

"Gibbs, there is no faster."

"Ziva's in the head with the suspect."

"You'll be fine Ziva, just keep stalling her. Where are you Gibbs?"

"Still in the booth."

"Well, maybe you should move closer to the ladies' room so you can get in there as soon as I have the answer for you."

Once more Gibbs wanted to slap himself upside the head. (Hell, Palmer might have done a better job. Well, no, he wouldn't have, but he wouldn't have known to follow Ziva, rather than having forgotten to do so.)

"Well Gibbs, you in position?"

"Yes, do you have an answer for me?"

"Oh yes, she's your girl."

From inside the washroom he heard a scuffle. He knew that Ziva must have made a move as soon as she too heard the news. He burst into the room, and helped Ziva subdue the screaming woman with the necklace of human ears. Between the two of them they were able to get her cuffed (With those stupid plastic strip things. He hated them. But there was no room in anyone's outfit for handcuffs, or a gun, both of which had bothered him.) and into the van.

An hour later, in the interrogation room, Freaky Vampire Chick had broken. Her real name was Sarah Mende, and she picked her victims at random. Three Marines in three weeks was just her bad luck. (Or coincidence. Not that Gibbs believes in coincidence. He does believe that living in the town three minutes from Quantico increases the likelihood of coming in contact with Marines.) He's also fairly sure that this woman is stark raving mad, and will soon be facing a very long stay in a very high security level mental institution. He is also deeply, deeply happy that he will soon be in his own home, in his own bathroom, and that he will never, ever have to wear eyeliner or tight leather pants again.

* * *

A/N: There seem to be two versions of Rule Number One. Don't Screw Over Your Partner, and Don't Screw Your Partner. Since it appears that this rule originated in Paris with Gibbs and Jenny, I've played with it a bit. Rule Number Twelve has always been Do Not Date Your Co-Workers.

Also, for those of you who are looking for more adventures in the Potterverse, I hope to return there soon. Not sure when the creative bug will bite again, but when it does, you'll all know.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Hard M for lots of imagined sex in this bit. Read at your own risk.

The Aftermath:

Gibbs entered his home, tossed his keys in their usual place, and headed straight towards the shower. The crud that Abby put in his hair and on his face makes him feel dirtier than he has in a long, long time. In fact, he's not quite sure if he's more eager to get into the shower tonight, or the night they investigated the exploding mausoleum.

He is sure that he has never, ever been more ready to get out of a pair of pants. Well, at least, he's never been more ready to get out of a pair of pants for the relief of getting the damn things off, he's had other reasons to get out of his pants quickly, and some of them were probably more pressing at the time.

As soon as he's closed the door to the bathroom he finds himself pulling off the damn things. The fly came down easily enough, but the rest of the pants are showing a stubborn level of resistance more appropriate to a Marine than a piece of clothing. He is seriously contemplating cutting them off (Which Abby had already told him not to do, unless he was willing to pay her the eight hundred dollars to replace them.) when his left leg comes free. The right quickly follows suit.

His sigh of relief is deep and heartfelt. Another one follows it as the warm water in his shower washes the goop off of him. This is the best he's felt in hours.

Almost. Freed from its leather prison his cock is asking for some attention. Free from the presence of anyone else he's willing to allow it. After all, there is no rule that states you can't screw yourself while thinking of a co-worker. (And even if there was, he'd have broken it about a thousand times by now.)

His mind wanders back to the club and the point where Ziva straddled him. Her motions and clothing stayed the same, but his mind let her hair fall free of the stark dominatrix bun Abby had her wear, and the oodles of black make-up vanished.

This time, when she leaned back against the table, it was to undo his fly, and let him free from those damn pants. Her hands are warm and soft, with just a hint of rasp from a callus on her trigger finger. He finds the reminder that this is a fighting woman deeply erotic. He finds the quick glimpse of a black thong, pushed to one side, as she slides onto him even more so.

This time, he allows himself to relish the feel of her ass in his hands. This time his hands are under her skirt, his fingers splayed against her warm smooth skin.

This time, instead of resting his head against her shoulder, he leans back so he can see her move. He watches the flush spread on her chest and face. He yanks the bustier down so he can palm her breasts. Their soft weight is beautiful to his hands.

He lets his eyes drift closed. He feels her bend close to him. Her hair brushes his face and neck. Her lips slide wetly against his, and then move to his ear. She's whispering in his ear, telling him how good he feels in her, how long she's wanted to do this, how close she is. Then her voice looses words and switches to moans.

He moves faster, harder, wanting to come with her. He grabs the nape of her neck and moves in for a deep, wet kiss. She is sucking his tongue, and clenching around him. And he is wrapped in the searing, pulsing sensation of a blazing orgasm.

And eventually, he is once more in his shower. The water is getting cold. He quickly soaps, shampoos and rinses. He's out of the shower and dried off in a matter of minutes. He replaces the towel on its rack and goes to brush his teeth. Getting into bed and slipping into sleep sounds wonderful just about now.

And, it is with thoughts of drifting off that he stops dead in his tracks two steps from the door of his bathroom upon seeing Ziva sitting on his bed.

He realizes he has three options. He can jump back into the bathroom. He can cover his privates and tell her to get the hell out of his room. Or he can walk to his dresser and grab his usual sleeping clothes, a pair of boxers and t-shirt. He's fairly sure that both he and she would see options one and two as signs of weakness. So he walks to the dresser, grabs a pair of boxers from the top shelf, puts them on, and then turns to her.

"Ziva?" He's pretty happy that that question came out as smoothly as it did. He's not sure he could live with it if his voice broke like some sort of teenager, or worse, a flustered McGee.

She's still wearing the same outfit. Her hair is still in the bun, but at least the make-up is gone. She's looking at him carefully, and for once he's not quite sure what her expression means. Part of him wants to turn back to the dresser and grab a t-shirt. Part of him is sure that breaking eye contact right now is a very bad idea.

"In the last ten years I have simulated sex with fifteen different partners in different undercover operations. And, until tonight, each and every single one has had the courtesy to get an erection."

Well, of all the things she could have said, that was the last he was expecting. His face eyebrows shot up.

"How do you think it feels? I am in good shape. I was wearing this tiny little outfit." She gestured at the outfit Abby had picked for her. "I was squirming in your lap, your face inches from my breasts, nibbling on your ears, and nothing. What does it take? Red hair?"

He smiled dryly. "No, just enough room in my pants for the blood to flow."

"You are saying you were too constricted?" A smile was beginning to form on her face as well.

"Did you see those pants?" He sat next to her on the bed, careful not to touch her.

"Yes, Abby and I had been rather enjoying the view."

"Wonderful." There was an edge of sarcasm in his voice.

"And now?" She looked expectantly at him, and licked her lips.

"Now?" He was desperately trying to come up with a way to get her out of his home before he broke every rule he had concerning female co-workers including the few he was writing this very second concerning subordinate employees.

She gestured delicately to his current lack of erection. "I'm in the same outfit, in your room, and could very easily be in your lap again."

"How long have you been here?"

Ziva looked confused. She glanced at his clock. "Half an hour."

"How many Marines do you know who take thirty minute showers just to get clean?" He hoped the look he was giving her got his message across.

Thankfully, it worked. "Oh." She looked relieved, and happy. Gibbs found himself wondering once again about how women decided if male interest was a compliment or an insult. What she didn't look like was ready to leave his home.

"Do you know Rule Number One?" Gibbs asked.

"I am not your partner."

"You were on this op."

She leaned towards him, her face less than an inch from his. "Aren't rules made to be broken?"

She looked good. She smelled better. His hands were itching to reach up and let her hair down. He wanted to pull her to him and kiss her until she began to whimper. He took a step back, inhaled deeply, closed his eyes, and exhaled. "Not this one."

She nodded and walked to the door of his room. At the door frame she stopped, turned and said, "I will not always be working for you."

"I know."

"Until then?" Her question was filled with promise. He nodded back at her. Part of him hoping for that day, part of him dreading it.

* * *

A/N: One more bit in this story. Hopefully I'll have it written and up in a few days.


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: M for Smut. Don't read if you don't like.

Aftermath II

Many thoughts go through his head as he drives. The most pressing one is that this is probably a bad idea. A very bad idea. He's absolutely sure that first thing tomorrow morning he'll be doing everything he can to get Ziva, and Tony, and Tim back to where they belong, with him. (And even more importantly, before Abby has a total meltdown and the lab goes to hell and gone.) But tonight she's no longer an employee, and he has no idea when he'll have that luxury again.

He's also sure that Jenny's death has had an effect on his actions. Ever since that first death, when one of his buddies bought it in Basic, he's known that nothing makes him want sex more than the loss of a friend. And Jenny was more than a friend. Just like with Kate, as soon as the investigation was over he felt the desire. Ducky's told him that it has something to do with confirming that you are alive, but his own personal theory is that when you feel so bad it's important to do something that feels this good. And nothing feels so good as sex.

He hopes Ziva agrees. Which is another problem. Ziva and Jenny were friends. And he does not know how Ziva responds to the death of a friend. He's aware that he might end up spending the night on her couch getting drunk and cried on. He can live with that.

He also hopes Ziva still remembers that night. It's been fifteen months, during which they have worked together like almost perfect professionals. If he spends a little too long looking at her, or stands a little too close, no one else has seemed to notice. Beyond that, he has done a very good job of keeping her out of his mind. He doesn't let his thoughts go there more than once a month. He's not sure if he could keep himself properly bosslike if he allowed himself to think of her, and him, and sex much more often than that.

As he pulls into the parking lot of her apartment complex his eyes scan the cars. He sees her car, but not Tony's, which was his other fear. He didn't want to come knocking on her door and find Tony sitting on her couch. He had a plan should that happen, (Call McGee and begin working on getting them back together.) but still, he'd rather have tonight with just her.

At her door he debates knocking. He could just pick the lock and enter, repeating her actions from last year. But giving her the chance to say "No" is more important to him. He knocks.

She answers it in her robe. It is gray and silky, and only comes to her mid-thigh. Her hair is down around her shoulders. Her face is fresh and make-up free. And she smells exactly as he remembers her: Very, very good.

"It seems you no longer work for me."

She pulls him into her home. "So, the rules no longer apply."

She had barely finished the last syllable before he is kissing her. Much to his relief she is kissing him back just as eagerly.

He pulls back for a second. "Are you sure?"

"Tomorrow will take care of itself." He has never been happier to hear words to that effect. He tosses his jacket behind him and wraps his arms around her again.

After several moments of frantic kissing and stroking she giggles. He pulls back and gives her a look that says, "What?" After all, giggles aren't exactly the reaction he's looking for.

She is smiling brightly. Her lips are swollen, and one shoulder has worked its way free of the robe. Her fingers ghost along the front of his pants. "There's the salute I was looking for last year."

He gives her a look, half smile, half smirk. "That's not the half of it."

"Really?" She's teasing him, and he's enjoying it. Yes, this is going to be very, very good.

He very slowly, without breaking eye contact, brushes her hair from her neck, his fingers stroking her skin before sliding through her hair, and then bends to kiss where her neck and shoulder meet. She shivers.

"Really," he whispers against her neck.

She breaks from him and pulls him toward her room. He follows, not as quickly as he'd like, but he's trying to walk and slip off his shoes at the same time. There never is a good time to take off shoes in a situation like this, but unless he plans an up against the wall quickie he needs to get them off. There is an appeal to pressing her against the wall of her hallway and wrapping her legs around him, but there's even more appeal to getting her all the way out of that robe and into a nice soft bed. This is one of the few moments where he'd really like to erase twenty years. Had he still been in his thirties this would be very easy, he'd do both. As it was, both hadn't been an option for some time.

On the upside he knew he was good for as long as she wanted to go. And there's quite a bit to be said for not having to worry about that.

And there's something to be said for not thinking at all. Which he is currently doing. They are in Ziva's room, and she has wiped all the coherent thoughts out of his mind with the slide of her tongue in his mouth, and the feel of her hands on his belt.

They are both pushing and pulling at his clothing. Trying to get him out of a shirt, t-shirt, pants and boxers without breaking their mouth to mouth contact. Finally she pulls back and pushes his hands out of the way.

"This will go faster if just one of us does it." He lets his hands drop to his sides and allows her to undress him. He's not entirely passive though, as she unbuttons the top of his shirt he gives the hem of her robe a tug. The robe opens and slides from her shoulder to the crooks of her elbows. When she drops her 

hands to pull the hem of his shirt out of his pants it pools around her wrists. She pulls both of his shirts over his head in one go, and then allows the robe to fall to the ground.

She is naked under the robe, and he is enjoying the view of her kneeling on the ground to go after his pants. Not that they really need that level of attention. Undo the belt, unbutton the button, unzip the fly and they'll fall to the floor all on their own. But he does appreciate the visual of her face inches from his fly, her fingers working his zipper. No matter what else happens tonight that memory is going into storage to be pulled out for later play.

He steps out of his pants and boxers, kicking them off one leg, while she visually inspects him in a much more thorough manner than he's used to. He realizes she's storing this for her private file of memories as well.

She stands, moves into his embrace, his kiss, and once again any thought beyond sensation is lost. She is smooth and tight in his arms. Her muscles flex under his fingers and her fingers scrape intricate patterns along his backside. He is aware of the edge of her bed against the back of his knees, and then sinking onto it. He is even more aware of her sinking onto him, and the hissing sound he makes when she does so.

She sets a pace that is slow and deliberate, and he's happy to go with it. For a while he lays back and watches her move on him, his hands lightly resting on her hips. His hips roll with hers. His eyes are half lidded and lazy looking.

He wants her closer to him. He sits up and wraps his arms around her, pressing kisses to her breasts. From this position he can't thrust and she slows way down, barely moving. Then he feels her squeeze. He makes that hissing sound again as his eyes roll closed and he pulls her lips into a very deep, very fast kiss.

The kiss builds and with it her speed. She is saying something, breathy and hot in his ear, but it's not English. He is nibbling one nipple while his hands stroke her hips and ass. Her hands are using his shoulders for balance. Her motions are losing their focus, and the sounds she's making are no longer words of any language. He feels her tighten against him, feels the pulsations he loves so much, and very quickly flips them so he's on top.

This is his favorite position. His body crushed to hers, her legs wrapped around his back, and her lips on his. In a few strokes he's able to join her bliss. They rest that way, breathing hard, hearts calming down, for a few moments, and then he rolls to his side, easing his weight off of her, but staying in contact.

Her face is inches from his, and she strokes his bottom lip with her finger tips. He takes her hand in his and kisses her palm, and then her wrist.

"Would you like to stay?" She asks him, a look of tenderness he only remembers seeing on her once before, at the bedside of Lt. Sanders.

"Yes, I would."

A/N: Hmmm... well this was supposed to be a little one shot crack fic, but it appears to be getting bigger by the moment. More to come.


	4. Chapter 4

There Are Rules For A Reason

He does not hear Ziva walk down the stairs to his basement. He's working with a plane on a fiddly bit of wood, and between the sound (Softly curling wood, if it sounds different he knows he's not doing it right.) and the concentration he does not hear her until she says his name from the bottom step.

She looks hesitant, and as he looks up he does as well. The last eighteen days have been warm, comfortable, and intensely erotic. But this morning he won. She, and Tim and Tony are his team once more. Tomorrow they will be back on duty. Which means the rules have changed again, and neither of them are quite sure where to go from here.

He has learned that she was close enough to Jenny to understand why trying to keep up a relationship with him while working together is not a good idea. And he's honest enough with himself to know that he's not sure he can work with her any longer. What galls him even further is that if there was a woman he could work with and sleep with it's probably her. But Shannon's, Kate's and Jenny's ghosts hover over him, and he's not sure he can take loosing another woman, and he knows that will cause him to make mistakes, and possibly get the rest of the team hurt.

He returns from his woolgathering and realizes that she has not yet said anything beyond his name. They are both good with quiet, but this is a flavor of quiet he doesn't recognize.

He walks to where she stands on the bottom step and takes her hand in his. His eyes search hers, expecting to see her practicing a brush off speech, one that will probably be pretty similar to the one he's been practicing as well, and dreading saying.

Instead he sees something, different. It's triggering very faint memories. Ghosts of memories. His eyes search hers, trying to find the missing piece, the thing that tells him what is about to happen. But she speaks before he can find it, so he is not prepared for her words.

"I am pregnant."

An electric current of joy spreads through him, leaving him grinning like a dope and his knees feeling weak. He notices that she is looking deeply alarmed. His facial expression was probably not one she was expecting.

"You are happy?" Ziva sounds incredulous.

He blinks, shakes his head, and regains something of his usual cool. "For now." Which is true. The longer he thinks about it the faster the glow of her words leaves him. "Let's go upstairs."

He leads her to his kitchen, and pours himself a drink, and has a good portion of bourbon in a glass for her when his hand stops, hovering over the glass. His gaze is a question. She shakes her head. He pours her drink into his glass and takes a large swallow.

"What can I get you?" He has coffee, bourbon, and some milk that's very close to becoming cheese in his refrigerator. Memories more than twenty years old tell him that none of those options are pregnant woman friendly.

"I'll have water."

"Good choice." He rinses out the glass he had poured her bourbon in, and then fills it with water. He hands her the glass and the hurries to his pantry. "Food?"

"No. I ate before coming here. So, you are happy?" She sounds less shocked, but still very unsure of him.

"I…" He sits across from her and tries to think of how to answer. Yes, he is happy. A child! Another chance at being a dad? Of course he's happy. No, he's not happy because this is the mother of all fuck ups, and right about now he needs to get slapped upside the head with a brick. He'd cut Tony's nuts off if he got himself into a similar situation, and Mike just might come all the way from Mexico to do the same to him. Their work situation just went from complicated to impossible. It's one thing to fool around with a subordinate, it's a whole other thing to get one pregnant. If he doesn't resign Vance will fire his ass so quickly that time might as well be moving backwards.

Bigger questions: Would she keep the baby? If so, should they get married? Hell, would she marry him? There's a good possibility that she considers being married optional. God, even if she said yes, could he make a fifth one work? ("Your first one would have worked out just fine if they had lived," said a very small voice in the back of his head, "and you've been trying to replace it ever since.") Do you love her? Yes, not hearts and flowers and all that romantic crap, but he respects her and trusts her and knows that he is richer for having her in his life. Probably a better foundation than the hearts and flowers. Am I too old for this? Of course, but that's not going to change anytime soon.

"Yes, in my gut." Once again he's got that dopy smile on his face, and it seems to really disturb Ziva so he tries to reign it in.

"And in your mind?"

"Ah…"

"Yes." He can read her look now, and he knows that she's just as aware of how hard work will be now.

"I should resign."

She gives him a gentle slap on the back of the head. "That would be stupid. You make more money than I do. You're less than three years from retirement and a good pension. And in a matter of months I won't be up to running after the bad guys. Plus, do you really think I want to be waddling around work with Tony at my side?" She shudders. He nods, all of her points are good, and he can very easily imagine how Tony would act with a pregnant partner. It's not pretty. "Besides, even fat and lazy I have more saleable skills than you do. My understanding is that people who can read and speak Arabic are in great demand with the FBI. People with my security clearance are in even higher demand."

"And we both know someone who might have an in at the FBI." Granted, Fornell would likely spend the next ten years on his back about this, but he had some leverage with Fornell. After all, the man had married one of his ex-wives, after he told him what a bad idea it was. And Fornell had also experienced the joy that is a very unexpected child much later in life than anticipated.

"You love your job," he says.

"Yes, but by the time this child is school age I'll be able to go back to it, and you'll have passed the mandatory retirement age for field agents. You might as well be there for the next three years."

He gave her a quick glare. He had been planning on making sure that sometime in the next year or so his birthday magically changed on some rather important documents, several of which he'd need Ducky's help to get. He didn't think Ducky would hinder him. At sixty-nine Ducky was very understanding of Jethro's annoyance towards the NCIS mandatory retirement age of fifty-seven for field agents.

They sat without speaking, and he knew he should ask her if she intended to keep the child. The last several minutes of conversation certainly indicated that, but she hadn't actually said. The problem was he didn't think he could actually say the words. He had already lost one child, and he desperately hoped she wasn't cruel enough to tell him she was pregnant just to take the possibility of another child away. He settled for the same question she had asked him.

"Are you happy?"

She shrugged. "Yes, originally, when the test first showed two pink lines. There was a…trill? Thrill. Now? This is big and scary and changes everything. Something that should have been simple is now complicated. Something that should have been a pleasant secret memory will now publicly outlive both of us."

God willing. He thought it but didn't say it. No need to remind her that sometimes children don't outlive their parents.

"Do you want to get married?" It had come out of his mouth before he could stop it.

"Would you ask if I was not pregnant?"

Part of him very much wanted to lie, or at least come up with a softer version of the truth. But he didn't. Hell, if there was any chance of this working honesty might be a better technique than those he had used in the past. So he shook his head and said, "No."

She quietly drank her water. He quietly watched her drink, and waited for her to respond to him. Several long moments passed, but he was well schooled in waiting patiently for someone to answer his questions. Of course, he also remembered that she was just as well schooled in not talking if it suited her. Finally though, she did start to talk.

"I know my mother would prefer I had a husband to go along with a baby. She would also prefer a nice Jewish boy about my age, and that we live somewhere she could visit each week."

Now it was his turn to think about what she had implied. She hadn't said she wanted to get married, and she hadn't quite said his becoming Jewish was required to get married either, or that moving to Tel Aviv was a requirement. But all of those things were at least on the table for discussion now.

"I can be a husband. Hell, I've had more practice than most guys." He gave her his dry smile, and she obliged with a little laugh. It was funny, sort of, and it was good that he was poking some fun at one of the eight-hundred-pound gorillas in the room. "I'm not sure if I could be Jewish, but I can find out if it's a possibility. It might be hard to say goodbye to bacon. Can't do anything about being your age. And I don't want to live in Israel, at least, not now. Maybe when that eventual forced retirement shows up…But not now." His answer had helped to lighten the feel in the room, and once again he took her hand. "That still doesn't quite answer my question."

"I don't know. Ask me again when I've had some more time to think about it." She lifted his hand and kissed it. Her gesture telling him that her words did not mean she didn't want to be with him, but that she wasn't sure that this was a good idea. He could respect that. He'd not be too interested in jumping into a marriage with a woman who had three ex-husbands either. Let alone based on their rather unconventional courtship to date.

"How long are you going to keep working with NCIS?" This was safer ground. They had both read, and initialed the sexual harassment manual, including the parts that stated that any fooling about with a superior or subordinate was grounds for immediate dismissal.

"You remember the Director had me stay behind after he dismissed Tim and Tony?" Gibbs nodded. He had wondered what was going on, but Ziva's employment with NCIS was more complicated than McGee's or DiNozzo's. "Unlike them I do not work for NCIS, so I cannot just be reassigned. He had offered me a contract, and the time to read it. I finished reading, took the test, confirmed my suspicions, and handed it back to him unsigned. I told him that I would not be returning to NCIS. I do not think that we broke any rules, but it would make things awkward, and I did not want to offer Director Vance anything that could make life more difficult for either of us. As it is, I am still on payroll with Mossad, and intend to see if I can get a job with the FBI before giving them notice. I do not think I will have too much trouble with that."

"No, probably not." Gibbs didn't need reminding that her father was placed in such a way to make sure that everything went smoothly for her transition. And was well connected enough to make sure that Gibbs would never be seen again should he so choose. Hell, he'd probably have to talk to the man, and sometime soon. He was bound to be a son of a bitch, the cold blooded efficiency of the Ari situation told Gibbs that, the question was, was he the kind of son of a bitch Gibbs could work with?

"So, now what?" she asked. Her eyes told him that she already had a pretty good idea of what came next, but wanted to sound him out as well.

"There'll be a lot of questions tomorrow as to why you haven't come back. It would be a good idea to have answers ready."

"Tomorrow night, my house, I will cook, you make sure everyone is invited. The fastest way to kill scuttlebutt is to make sure everyone knows what is going on, no?"

He sighed, his, their, private life was about to get a whole lot more public.


	5. Chapter 5

Invitations:

It was not uncommon for Tony to get into work and find Gibbs missing from his desk. It was less common to get in and find Ziva missing as well, but not unheard of. What was unheard of was when McGee entered the building, and both agents found themselves waiting for the rest of the team. Especially since, to the best of anyone's knowledge, there wasn't a newly broken case to cause Gibbs or Ziva to be away.

Tony's spider senses began to tingle first. After ten minutes of no Gibbs, or Ziva, or calls, he was beginning to get alarmed. Tim didn't seem nearly as worried. When a half hour of no Gibbs and Ziva had gone by both men decided it was time to do some investigation.

"Should we call them?" Tim asked Tony.

Tony gave him a slap upside the head. "Do you think Gibbs would be forty-five minutes late to work and not call if he could call? Do you, Probie?"

What Tim wanted to say was, "Well, yes actually, even Gibbs might be having a late morning." (As a matter of fact Gibbs was having a late morning. His usual seven minute morning shower routine had tripled its length when Ziva popped into the shower with him. Add gridlock on the Beltway and he was running late.)

What Tim did say was, "I can locate his cell phone. If it's on."

Big if, Gibbs wasn't exactly known for his cell phone skills.

"Do it, Probie." Tim rolled his eyes, but got to his computer and found Gibb's cell phone was currently located in the parking garage and steadily moving closer to the office. He reported this to DiNozzo.

"All we have to do now is find Ziva."

"No need, DiNozzo." Gibbs walked past him carrying his usual cup of coffee. Tony might not have been the sharpest man in the history of detective work, but he was fairly sure the Gibbs looked in a much better mood than he had ever seen the man.

"Right Boss. And where would Officer David be?"

"Ziva will not be returning to work." Both Tony and Tim looked like they had been punched in the stomach. Questions, mostly along the lines of: "Why? How? What do you mean not coming back? You're kidding, right?" came tumbling out of the mouths of both men in a shocked canticle of words.

"Dinner at her place. Seven PM tonight. She'll let you know what's going on. Now, you two, get to work on that pile of paperwork that isn't doing itself. I need to tell Abby, Ducky, and Palmer."

Gibbs stalked out of the room, coffee lifted to his lips, hiding a smile that just didn't want to go away. Really, Tim and Tony were funny. He could understand that they were bothered by the loss of a team member, and that they didn't yet know why she wasn't back, so they were worried. But Hell, it's not like he had just told them Ziva had died or something. She was alive, and well, and just not coming back to work here.

He decided telling Abby next would be a good idea. He wanted to tell her before McGee and DiNozzo got to her lab to start speculating. (He guessed that would be eight, maybe ten minutes from now. Not more than twelve. Both of them would discover a pressing need to consult forensics on something for the paperwork he told them to do. Even if they had to dig through the papers to find the correct ones that would require them to go visit Abby.) Plus he wanted some time to talk to Ducky alone. He knew Ducky well enough and long enough to know that Ducky would not be awash in happy feeling immediately. At least, not directed at Gibbs. Plus he wanted the older man's counsel. Which meant he had to get Palmer out of the way, but that probably wouldn't be too hard. As soon as he told Palmer to leave, Palmer would scoot over to Abby's lab, where the four remaining team members would gossip to their heart's content about what had happened with Ziva.

The music in Abby lab was blaring at its usual ear splitting volume. Gibbs was always amazed that Abby still had any hearing left. She was sitting at her desk looking over her notes, he noticed her outfit, a very conservative blue suit, and remembered that she was due in court this afternoon. Well, that would cut down on some of the scuttlebutt.

"Hey Abbs."

She looked up confused, "Gibbs? I don't have anything for you, and I didn't think you had anything for me. Isn't today mostly paperwork?"

"It is. I wanted to tell you something."

Abby looks skittish, and Gibbs realizes that this is not a great plan. The guys will wonder and worry, but they won't be really bothered by this, at least, not the way Abby will. But Jen just died, and Abby's still hurting over that, and now, learning that Ziva won't be back, less than a day after learning that she would be back, would set Abby to fretting.

"What's up Gibbs?"

"Ziva's having dinner at her place tonight. Everyone's invited, dinner starts at seven. She won't be coming back to work here, and wanted to have a chance to tell everyone why."

"She's not coming back?" Abby looks close to tears. It's not that she's that fond of Ziva, they aren't close the way she and Kate were, or she and Jenny, but it's another shock on top of too many shocks in the last three weeks.

"No Abbs, she's not." Gibbs wraps Abby into a hug. Wondering, like he always does, how this woman can remind him so much of his daughter. "It'll be okay. She's not hurt or dying or anything sad like that, she's just not coming back here."

"But she belongs here, Gibbs."

"Not anymore." He kisses Abby on the forehead. "It'll be okay. She'll tell you all about it tonight."

Abby looks up at him with curiosity in her eyes. "She's already told you?"

"Yes."

"And it's not something terrible?"

"No Abbs, it's not. You'll be happy when you hear, but she wants to tell you so I'm not going to do it."

"Mysterious." Her mood has lifted, and he can see her wondering about what could possibly be keeping Ziva away. Yes, she DiNozzo and McGee were going to have a great time trying to figure out what was going on.

Gibbs smiles at her. "I've got to give Ducky and Palmer the invite as well. I'll see you at Ziva's tonght?"

"Wouldn't miss it." He walked out of the lab while Abby went back to her notes, humming happily.

To some extent he was dreading telling Ducky. To another extent he was looking forward to the verbal beating he was about to get. Shortly after Kate died Ducky had told him that both of them were old chauvinists, and he was right. They were gallant, and charming, and had gotten used to women in their world, women who were excellent at their jobs, but the old habits were still there. One of those old habits was that women needed to be protected. Especially from idiot men trying to get them pregnant. Another one was that you did not just go about spraying sperm around knocking up women you weren't married to. And if you did end up with an oops you got your ass married as soon as humanly possible and then told everyone around you how happy you were that your premature baby was so big and healthy.

So, while he was pretty sure that dinner would bring a shocked silence from McGee and DiNozzo, and happy squeals of glee from Abby, he also knew that Ducky would be pissed, and would have some choice words for him. Words best said in private.

When he entered the Morgue he saw both doctors sitting side by side at one of the tables going through old files. Just as upstairs, there were no open cases, which meant this was a fine time to catch up on paperwork.

Gibbs casually walked by the videophone and switched it off before saying hello to the two doctors. After all, there was no point in letting Abby, or anyone else in her lab, listen in on the conversation he was about to have with Ducky.

"Jethro, what brings you down here?" Ducky asked.

"And invitation and some disappointing news. Ziva will not be returning to work here. She'd like a chance to tell you why tonight though, so dinner's at her place at seven." He switched his gaze to Palmer. "She told me to tell you that if you'd like to invite Agent Lee she's welcome."

Palmer nodded and blushed. Lee had been transferred to another building which had allowed them to start dating openly, and ended the least well kept secret affair in the entire history of NCIS. By last count at least four people had caught them on the video phone that they seemed to be unaware was usually kept on in the morgue. Gibbs felt a quick wave of shame, even Palmer and Lee, who from the scuttlebutt had managed to fuck on every horizontal and most of the vertical surfaces in the building hadn't managed to end up with a surprise pregnancy.

"Palmer, I think Abby's got something for you in the lab."

"Really? I thought she was getting ready for court today…"

"Goodbye Palmer." Jimmy took the hint and scooted out of the room. Besides, an approved opportunity to hang out with Abby was always welcome.

Ducky looked at Jethro with curiosity. He and Gibbs often had a need to chat without the presence of the underlings, but to the best of his knowledge there was nothing that currently needed discussing.

Gibbs decided to go straight for it. "Ziva's pregnant, Duck."

"Well, I can certainly understand not wanting to do this job pregnant. That could be uncomfortable at best and dangerous at worst. When is she due?"

Gibbs thought about it. It occurred to him that he should have asked her that. Let's see, it's early June, so nine months out would be… "Around March, I think."

"Then she's just barely caught. Why does she want to stop working now? I mean, there's no way this early to even tell that she'll stay pregnant…" Which was when Ducky realized that Jethro had just winced very, very slightly.

"Jethro, why are you telling me this? You're letting Ziva tell all the others tonight."

"Because it's mine as well, Duck."

Ducky opened and closed his mouth a few times. Words should have been coming out, but just as he was about to put some sound to them, he'd change his mind and try another one.

Finally he settled on, "How long have you two been an item?"

"Since the night they were reassigned." Which told Ducky that Ziva had gotten pregnant on their first, maybe second date, but not much later than that.

"And, would I be correct in assuming that this was not planned?" Ducky's eyes were much harder than usual.

Gibbs looked sheepish, "You'd be right on that."

"Ah…" Gibbs and Ducky had known each other for over fifteen years. In all that time Gibbs had never seen Ducky slap anyone upside the head. Not even when they really deserved it. So it was quite a shock when he felt Ducky's hand connect with the back of his head.

"You do know how babies are made Jethro?"

Gibbs nodded.

"And you are aware of how to prevent these things from happening if you do not wish them to occur?" The level of sarcasm in Ducky's voice was also something that Gibbs had never heard before.

Gibbs nodded again. It had been more than thirty-five years since the first time he had sex. In all those years only two pregnancies had occurred (he hoped). So yeah, he had a pretty good track record of avoiding these things. He had just assumed that Ziva had taken care of it. Actually, he hadn't thought about it until the third or fourth time and then he assumed she had taken care of it. Really, it had been more than five years since he had even slept with a woman who was young enough that this was even a potential problem. As of this point he hadn't asked if she hadn't used anything or if anything had failed. Really, at this point her actions or lack thereof didn't matter. He hadn't used anything, which was all that mattered to him.

"What were you thinking?" Ducky's voice was cold and angry.

Gibbs opened his mouth, and Ducky quickly said, "I know what you were thinking, and which bit of your anatomy was doing the thinking. Between Jenny's death and Ziva suddenly available you just jumped at the chance. Horny bastard. You better not have just ruined her life!"

They stood quietly looking at each other. Gibbs was glad that he gave Ducky the chance to do this without everyone else watching. Duck was right when he said that they were both old chauvinists. And as a member of the tribe Ducky now felt the need to defend Ziva and beat Gibbs about the head for what both of them considered remarkably bad behavior. Fooling around could be winked at, Ducky knew about Gibbs and Jenny and Paris, but getting a woman pregnant could not be.

"Are you going to marry the girl?"

"She told me to ask her again later. She's a little hesitant about getting involved with someone with my track record."

"Which she bloody well should be! No woman in her right mind should marry you. And you are too bloody old to be running about getting girls pregnant! You'll be seventy-five by the time this child is out of college. How could you possibly have allowed yourself to get into this kind of mess?"

Gibbs shrugged.

Ducky shook his head and his anger began to fizzle. He could see that as much as Jethro felt he deserved to be berated for this, that his friend was also deeply happy, and in a way that Ducky hadn't seen before. Ducky walked to his desk and gestured for Jethro to follow. He opened the door, grabbed the bottle of Glenmorangie, and poured them both a shot.

"I really shouldn't encourage drinking at work, but I think this warrants it."

"Thanks, Duck." They drank in silence. "I wanted to ask you something."

"Such as how to procure a vasectomy?"

Gibbs smiled grimly. He deserved that comment, and a few more at that. "Little late for that, Duck. Look, you've met my exes. You knew Jenny. How do I make it work? It didn't matter so much before, but there's going to be a kid, and…"

Ducky nodded. "You ask the man who's never been married."

"I ask the man who's seen all but one of my wives and might have a clue at what I keep doing wrong."

"Unfortunately the one I didn't get to meet is the one who matters most. But, from what I remember the other three weren't very thrilled about the fact that you are never home, you break dates, and the job always comes first. And, while that didn't bother Jenny, the fact was the job came first for her as well, and she was more ambitious than you are. Can I ask you something?"

"Sure."

"Why did you marry them?" Gibbs poured himself another drink, and offered more to Ducky. Ducky shook his head. He could see that Jethro was mostly using this action as an excuse to think.

Finally, after he had tasted the second drink, and very carefully placed the glass on the desk, he spoke, "They seemed to like it."

"They liked it when you showed up for dinner on time too, but I didn't notice you doing that too often. Dig deeper Jethro, why did you marry them? I think when you know that you'll know why it didn't work."

Gibbs nods and stands to leave. A few steps from the door Ducky asks him, "Is she happy about this, Jethro?"

"I think so, Duck. She said she was happy when she found out. She's not talking about an abortion or giving it up for adoption. And she is talking about looking for a desk job doing translations for the FBI for the next three or four years."

"Then tonight I will be happy for her. You should have known better."

"Yep. Ziva wants to tell the others herself, so if you can keep this quiet for the next ten hours…"

"Jethro, I have no intention of cutting short my enjoyment of watching the others try to come up with reasons for why Ziva isn't coming back. I imagine some of them will be vastly entertaining. And, if I know your team, shortly after Abby goes to court Tim and Tony will be down here for more speculation. In fact, they are probably in her office now, wondering why the video phone is shut off and why they can't see what we're talking about. I imagine that alone will have them in a tizzy."

Gibbs smiled. Ducky returned it. And both men went back to their paperwork.


	6. Chapter 6

Cooking and Revelations:

Ziva likes to cook. And because she likes to cook she likes markets. She especially likes going to the market and seeing what looks good, and then turning it into something scrumptious.

Early June in DC means the tail end of asparagus season. She especially likes the very thin green ones lightly blanched and then sprinkled with a little olive oil and sea salt. Which makes a nice side dish or appetizer but is not quiet dinner. Well, not dinner for the crowd that'll be showing up tonight.

It is Friday, and although she very rarely keeps formal Sabbath she works very hard at making sure that she eats kosher on Fridays. So she has to decide if tonight will be a meat or milk night.

If she goes vegetarian she can make Challah with butter, which she prefers to margarine or oil. But if she goes vegetarian she's likely to get comments from Tony about how it isn't really dinner if there isn't any meat.

As she walks past the produce a large bunch of perfect baby spinach catches her eyes. Next to it, the earliest of the early vine ripened tomatoes sit in red perfection. She glances around and sees the mushrooms a few stalls over.

Screw Tony. She'll go vegetarian, and have a good time at it. She hasn't baked in weeks and the freedom of a milk meal means she can do her Challah the way she likes it best, amaretto cheesecake for dessert, and take those lovely tomatoes and spinach and mushrooms home and make them into a very tasty vegetarian lasagna.

She picks up a selection of olives and cheeses to go with the asparagus as side dishes and takes her ingredients home.

The David household was not terribly traditional, but she does have some memories of her Safta and Mama showing her how to make the Challah the morning of the Sabbath. As she measures out ingredients she imagines teaching her son, or daughter, how to do this. A happy little fantasy of standing in the kitchen, next to a small boy with curly black hair showing him how to knead the dough begins to form in her mind. At the same time she can see Gibbs sitting at the table watching them work, chatting about the latest case with her. Maybe she could put him in charge of the braiding. The man is good with his hands. He could learn how to braid a Challah.

Which is where the fantasy changes, becoming more real. Gibbs would help with the braiding, and he'd be about two twists into it when his cell would ring and they'd get the word that some poor Marine or Navy man was dead somewhere and he needed to be there now.

Of course, if the child is old enough to be helping with the bread, then Gibbs is old enough to be retired. So the fantasy changes again, and now the call is for her. She's the one who needs to go and find the answers. And Gibbs wants to go with her. How can this man retire? If he doesn't end up with some sort of police consulting business he'll go mad. Too many bad guys wandering around and if he isn't out there doing something about it it'll kill him.

And what about her? Can she really spend three years as a translator? She's knows they need people who speak Arabic, desperately. She knows the backlog of recorded suspicious conversations is huge and getting bigger. She knows that unless someone does listen to them, and get them into English that horrible things can happen. So there is certainly value to the work. She understands that.

What she isn't sure of is her ability to do the translations, pass the information on, and then go onto the next conversation without killing the targets from the first conversation. Especially if she runs into something really bad, or urgent.

Likewise, how long will it take before she starts itching to go undercover? She knows there are mosques all along the eastern seaboard that are under suspicion, and that having someone who speaks perfect Arabic with a West Bank accent would be of great value. Even if that someone has to be in a burqa. Women listen, and among themselves they speak. She could get into places no one else in the FBI could even dream of. In that case being pregnant would be an advantage, she'd look even more like the proper Muslim wife. All she'd need was some man to go with her, preferably one with a somewhat similar accent.

Or she could sit at a desk, listen to recordings, and write down what they mean. Which would be safe. Very safe. And good for a pregnant woman, not much in the way of physical stress. If she gets morning sickness there will be nice clean restrooms nearby. If her back hurts, she can get a new chair. And she'll probably be bored. Safe, but bored. But, if she had a desk job there is absolutely no chance of her cover getting blown and being killed. She's still certain she can do a better job of taking care of herself than most people, most agents, but she's not certain how long that will remain true. She knows women who got pregnant in her line of work, most of them managed to stick around for a month, maybe two. If the morning sickness and exhaustion didn't make the physical demands of the job impossible, a few months later the loose joints, new center of balance and clumsiness did. (And it's not that these women became incapacitated, it was just that they knew that the extra second or two on their reflexes was the line between life and death, so they bowed out.)

She has also kneaded the Challah within an inch of its life. If she doesn't stop now it will be tough. So she sets it in a bowl to rest and begins work on the cheesecake.

She sighs. She knows that going undercover is a bad idea. At least for the next year. She just won't be as sharp as she needs to be to do the job as well as she wants to. But she can translate Arabic in her sleep. (Literally, she dreams in it sometimes.) What she really wonders is if someday she'll be able to go back. She doesn't know anyone who got pregnant and returned to her kind of work. She knows women who returned to desk jobs, women who became profilers and consultants, women who were promoted out of active duty, and women who enjoyed their kids so much they became full time moms. What she doesn't know is anyone who went back to gun toting, life and death, run down the bad guy when necessary, fieldwork. Let alone anyone who returned to her section of Mossad. She is sure it does happen, she just doesn't know of anyone who had done so.

She places the cheesecake in the oven and begins prep work for the lasagna. Unlike the previous baking this requires the work of knives and heat, so she keeps her mind on her cooking. Later tonight she'll put all the layers in place and pop the lasagna into the oven. Right now she's making the sauce and getting everything ready to go for assembly.

Which leaves her finished with her prep work by noon. The Challah needs one more rise before it goes into the oven. The cheesecake is slowly cooling. And all the pieces of what will eventually be a lasagna are in the refrigerator. Seven hours to fill.

She's not shocked when ten minutes later DiNozzo shows up at her door. It's lunchtime, and she knows from Gibbs that, barring the unfortunate death of someone, today is a paperwork day. She's a little surprised that only Tony is standing there, but he's the one least likely to be able to wait the whole day long for a dinner invitation.

"Tony."

"Ziva." He's looking around her place like he hopes to find the answer to why she isn't coming back sitting on the couch. "Smells good in here."

"It should, I've been cooking since this morning. We're having lasagna for dinner."

His eyes warm up and he licks his lips. Meat or no meat, he loves lasagna. "That sounds really good. So, what's this about you not coming back."

"I am not coming back."

"So Gibbs said. Why are you not coming back?"

"What is the scuttlebutt?"

He rolls his eyes. "We know that you aren't coming back, that Gibbs has told Abby she'll be happy about why, and that he then vanished to talk with Ducky for half an hour before storming into Abby's lab to get us back to work. We know he's in a better mood than he should be and he's trying to hide it. We know you read the contract the Director gave you, but did not sign it. The money's on you've gotten a better job somewhere else, probably back with Mossad."

"So, why are you here?"

"Because I don't buy the scuttlebutt. They could have promoted you to the head of Mossad and Gibbs wouldn't be happy. He wouldn't be off chatting with Ducky about it."

"Was he talking about it with Ducky? They do have other things to talk about."

He gives her a hard look. "Why are you being so evasive? Just tell me why you aren't coming back."

"I'm debating whether or not you can keep it a secret until tonight."

"Ziva, it's me."

"Exactly."

"I kept what was happening with Jeanne a secret for a whole year."

"That is why I am debating."

"How about we start with this, are you alright?"

"Yes, Tony, I am alright."

"And yesterday when we all met with the Director, you were interested in the job then."

"I had some suspicion I was not going to take it, but I wanted to see what was offered."

"What, not enough money? No company car? Just tell me."

"Do you remember how worried I was about you when you were undercover with Jeanne? How I did not know what was happening, or where you were, or if you might have been in trouble?"

He nods.

She smiles wickedly at him. "I believe the term is, 'Payback's a bitch.'"

"Ouch. I had a really good reason for not telling you."

She glances at the clock. "Six and a half hours Tony. You can wait until dinner." He looks so down, he's almost on the verge of moping.

"Will we still see you?"

"Will you miss me that much?"

"Of course, you're part of the team." He's pouting at her. She's fairly sure that he's playing her, trying to get the information out of her. She's also weighting the fun of seeing his face now, telling him alone, and the possibility that he'll blab before tonight and then she won't get to surprise anyone else.

Finally she settles on a plan. "Do you really want to know?"

His eyes perk up. "Of course."

"Enough to take the rest of the day off, keep me company, and help cook?"

Now it's his turn to weigh his options. Taking the rest of the day off means calling Gibbs and telling him he won't be back. Which isn't the most comfortable option on the face of the planet. And, he'll know what's up, but he won't have the joy of teasing McGeek about knowing something he doesn't.

He stalls for time, "Can we watch a movie?"

She thinks about it. "Only if you let me pick."

He winces slightly, the last movie she picked was in French without subtitles and bored the hell out of him.

"Only if it's in English or has subtitles."

"Deal."

"Well…" He looks at her expectantly.

"Call off work first." He gives her a little glare. So much for trust between partners. He calls Gibbs and much to his great joy finds that the voice mail has answered. He leaves a very quick message, and hangs up.

"Well…"

"Have you had lunch yet?"

"Quit stalling and tell me."

She takes a deep breath. "I am pregnant."

She had a few ideas as to how Tony would react. Hysterical laughter had not been on the list. He finally calmed down about five minutes later.

When he could speak, he said, "Now, really, what is it?"

"That is it. No joke Tony. I'm not coming back because I am pregnant and looking for a job that works better with a roll in the stove."

Now he looks confused. He's obviously noticed that Ziva is female, but like many men translating that idea into possible motherhood isn't something he's ever done. That she could do this most quintessentially of female things is so far away from his expectations that he's having a hard time wrapping his brain around it. He's so far gone he doesn't correct her idiom, which she purposely messed up just to give him something else to focus on.

After a minute or two he thinks of something to say. "But, you aren't even dating."

This is technically true. One of the easiest ways to keep a secret affair a secret is to not go out and flaunt it all over town. So while she and Gibbs have done pretty much everything that can be done inside a private home, they have yet to go out in public together.

"Dating is not required to get pregnant." This increases Tony's confusion. She can see him trying to put the pieces together, and finally his face goes back to something like its usual self.

"I didn't know you wanted kids. You should have told me you were planning on getting pregnant. What kind of donor did you pick? Some preppy little college kid with lots of brains? Or maybe Mr. Athlete?"

Now it's her turn to look confused. Donor is throwing her, she knows what the word means but it doesn't seem to apply here. Then her memory brings back conversations with Tony about him being a sperm donor. Some women pay for sperm to get pregnant on their own. They want babies, they don't want to adopt, so they have one without the active help of a man. She tries to think of a response to what he's said and settles for, "This was not planned."

"How could it not be planned?"

She gives him a look that he knows means she's fed up with him.

"You had a one night stand? With who?"

She walks into the kitchen and pours him a drink. He follows her, sees it and his eyes widen. "There's not enough alcohol in the world if you're about to tell me McGee."

She hands him the glass. "It was not a one night stand, and it's not McGee. You should swallow that before I tell you who though."

He gulps too fast and makes choking noise. A moment later he's breathing calmly again. "So, spill. Who's your more than one night stand but not dating baby daddy?"

"Gibbs."

He dropped the glass. She caught it before it hit the floor, but not before the rest of the vodka spilled. For a long time Tony said nothing, just stared at her as if he had never seen her, or anything remotely like her, before. She could see a lot of things were going through his head, many which seemed to make him deeply uncomfortable. When he does speak his words pour out fast, piling onto each other.

"But he's so old. I mean, I know you've got some sort of Daddy issues, but Gibbs? Did you not notice the three ex-wives? Or Hollis Mann? How long has this been going on? Gibbs? I mean, I can kind of see him and Abby in a sick sort of way, but you and Gibbs? How? Why? Gibbs? You're young and hot and have that sexy accent, why on earth would you pick Gibbs?" He walked over to the vodka bottle and took a swig directly from it. "I almost think I would have rather heard you say McGee."

"He is not that old. Yes, I am aware of his previous relationships. A little over three weeks. You don't need to know how. As to why pick him, he gets it, and me. Now what do you mean by 'Daddy issues'?"

He waves away her last question and sits at her table, pornographic images of her and Gibbs racing through his mind. Images he really doesn't want or need, but can't seem to keep from seeing.

She attempts to attract his attention again, "You said he was happy today?"

"And now I know why. How did you two keep this a secret?"

"Tony, you've been on a ship for the last three weeks. Tim's been in a different city. We did not go out, so there was no chance of anyone seeing us. Secret kept. "

"Are you two… together?"

She thinks about it. She was fairly sure that both of them had been on the same page the day before yesterday, they'd take advantage of as much time as they had, and when that time was done, they'd go back to working together. Now, well, they wouldn't be working together again, ever. He asked her to marry him yesterday, but that was just a kneejerk reaction to hearing she was pregnant, she's not sure he really means it, or if he does, that he's thought it through.

So, although she's speaking more from hope than certainty, she answers, "Yes, we are."

"So what happens next?"

"You punch down the bread dough and pop some popcorn while I pick out a movie."

"I meant…"

"I know, but I do not know the answer yet. So get to work. I will try to find a movie even you will like."

She is still sitting in front of her rather small movie collection when he rejoins her. "You know, we should keep some of that dough for ear plugs. Can you imagine the shrieks Abby's going to let out when she hears?"

She smiles at him and holds up a copy of Doctor No. "I got sick of not understanding your James Bond fascination so I rented this."

He smiles, not totally at ease, not even close, but better than five minutes ago. "Perfect."

* * *

A/N: In kosher cooking one can have meals with meat, or meals with milk/milk products, but not both. Veggies and grains are able to be eaten with anything. Safta is Hebrew for Grandma.

* * *


	7. Chapter 7

Doctor No:

The best thing about Doctor No in this particular circumstance is that Tony has it pretty much memorized. He can zone out, think about this bomb that Ziva just tossed at him, and still look attentive and talk with her about whatever she has to say about the movie once it ends. The second best thing is that she got the first James Bond movies, not the last. He has no desire to see Daniel Craig in a tiny little bathing suit. There are more than enough uncomfortable images dancing in his head, he doesn't need that one as well.

And the images just won't leave. Gibbs kissing Ziva. Ziva naked and wrapped around Gibbs. Gibbs naked with Ziva kneeling in front of him. Gibbs' wrinkly old butt bouncing around on top of gorgeous, naked Ziva. It was just wrong. So, so deeply wrong.

It's not that he thought he and Ziva would ever get together, but since there was no possibility of them, he didn't like to think of her with anyone. But he did, on more than one occasion, like to fantasize about the two of them. Especially since that one assignment.

Then there's Gibbs himself. The man who almost used a brick to pound Rule Number Twelve into his head when Kate joined the team had spent the last three weeks fucking Ziva. And not just fucking, he got her pregnant! A nasty suspicion that perhaps the whole reason for Rule Number Twelve was to keep the ladies for himself enters Tony's head, and leaves just as quickly. He's sure there was nothing between Gibbs and Kate. He hopes there was nothing between Gibbs and Kate. Kate in a little catholic school girl uniform sitting in Gibbs' lap is too much to bear.

How is he going to work with Gibbs again? He was comfortable with the jokes about Gibbs and his horde of ex-wives and soon to be ex-wives. (Oh Hell, is Ziva going to marry him? She can't be future ex-wife number four! That's also wrong, very, very wrong. Ten million shades of wrong.) And he intellectually understands that Gibbs has sex but he really doesn't want to think about it. To see it in his mind when he closes his eyes is even worse. But now it's there. And he's not sure he can get it out of his head well enough to actually work for the man.

Also, how dumb do you have to be to get a woman pregnant when you don't want to? Tony doesn't have any accidental kids roaming about. And although it looks like he's had a lot less chance, neither does McGee. Or Ducky, or Palmer, in fact, the only guys Tony knows who did have an oops moment were in their teens when it happened, or the oops factor was only on the guy's part, the woman was usually not surprised at all. He sees Ziva out of the corner of his eye runs away from that idea as quickly as he can, there's just no way she decided to trip Gibbs. The world may have flipped upside down today, but it didn't turn inside out as well.

And that doesn't touch the bigger issue. Gibbs screwed up. Gibbs really screwed up. This was a fuck up of mammoth proportions before Ziva got pregnant, and now, now it's just beyond comprehension. How to respect a guy who breaks his own rules? How to respect a guy who would have personally killed you had you broken those same rules, but just flaunts them when he finds it convenient?

Hell, this is worse than finding out Daddy wasn't perfect. Tony doesn't even remember a time when he was of the opinion that his Dad was a great guy. But Gibbs was different. Gibbs was a great guy, a rock hard, pain in the ass, brass bound son of a bitch when he needed to be, but still the guy you wanted by your side when the shit hit the fan and all hell broke loose. He was the guy Tony wanted to be. (Well, a somewhat less uptight and more culturally up-to-date version.) Gibbs was Tony's image of what a man should be, and now he's not, and Tony doesn't know what to do with that.

Tony stands up mid-movie. "I've got to get out of here."

Ziva turns off the movie and glares at him. "You can't keep it a secret for an afternoon?"

"No, I'll keep it a secret. You've got the right to tell who you want when and how you want, but I've got to talk to Gibbs." The level of seriousness in his voice is worrying Ziva.

"Why?"

"Because this is wrong. This is a man who'd slap me silly if I so much as looked wrong at you or Kate." She knows that's not all of it, and gives him a look that says so. He's so shaken he answers honestly. In fact, the last time she saw him so shaken, so emotionally open, was right after Paula Cassidy was killed. "Because I don't know how to handle this."

"He's the same man he was yesterday."

"No, he's not. Yesterday he knew you and Abby were off limits."

"Am I the same person I was yesterday?"

"I don't know."

"You seem to be having less trouble with me than with him."

"I never saw you as a role model."

"Oh." And she's starting to get it. She could understand his shock, but not his dismay, but now she sees it, and it was not something she had anticipated.

"I am sorry Tony. I did not think this would bother you so much. I thought you'd find it funny after you got over the shock."

"I still might, but right now… I'm your partner, why didn't you tell me sooner?"

"I've known for," she glances at a clock, "twenty-seven hours. It did not seem fitting to tell you before I told him."

"Not that, why didn't you tell me about you and Gibbs? You must have wanted him before you got together."

"And be teased mercilessly?"

She has a point. He would have brought it up any and every chance he could have gotten for the sheer enjoyment of it. The practical jokes alone would have been priceless. That thought sparked some new joke ideas, which he'd have to keep working for Gibbs to implement. Maybe there was an upside to this.

"When did you…" he fumbles for words "get interested in him?"

"Last year, you were on vacation and Tim got sick. We ended up partnered together at the Goth club. We were in a booth watching the crowd and making sure Abby was covered. But everyone in a booth in that club was making out. So were we, to blend in."

"And his amazing kissing skills were so good you fell for him?"

She slaps him upside the head. "He was amazingly professional."

"I was professional. You didn't come up to my place as soon as we were reassigned."

"Tony, you were very complimentary, very appreciative, and there was no challenge in you. I knew exactly what you wanted, and how you wanted it, and why you didn't do anything about it. Gibbs made me wonder. That attracted my interest, and things went from there."

"You two waited more than a year?" Although that's the question he asked, what he really wants to know is how they possibly kept up the interest for that long. Over a year of nothing but professional interaction would have bored him silly or driven him insane.

"It's not like we were pining for each other. A lot of what made me interested was curiosity, and this last year I have had the opportunity to watch him and Jenny and him and Hollis. It has been fascinating. Have you never wondered how a good man like Gibbs has three ex-wives? Do you know any serial divorcees who are as confident or competent? It just doesn't add up."

He waves away her questions. He's starting to feel like he's getting a handle on this and does not want to be distracted. "And then, as soon as you no longer worked for him you pounced?"

"No, I 'pounced' less than three hours after we left the bar. He turned me down. As I said, professional. Then as soon as I no longer worked for him, he came to me."

Tony's respect for Gibbs is starting to come back. He's seen the photos Abby shot on her cell phone that night, and if Ziva had pounced on him, he very much doubted that he'd say no. Not in that outfit at least. Well, honestly, not in any outfit.

"So, how did this," he gestures towards her tummy, "happen?"

"Shouldn't you have learned that a long time ago?"

"You know what I mean."

"Nothing works every single time." Which had the advantage of being true, and deflecting Tony's dismay. She can see that the idea of Gibbs turning her down while she still worked for him is helping to restore Tony's image of the man. She can also see that the unvarnished truth would likely hurt it. What Ziva doesn't know is if her diaphragm failed, or if she got pregnant on one of the two times it was sitting in the bathroom. She does know that Gibbs didn't contribute to the contraception, and that is likely to upset Tony.

"Are you going to keep it?"

"Quitting my job was rather drastic if I didn't intend to." Tony has sat back down on her couch.

"Do you still want to race out and talk to Gibbs?"

This time Tony really does feel better. He's not just wearing the face for Ziva's benefit. "No, but, if you could, make sure I get a few minutes to talk with him alone before dinner."

"He's due here an hour before the rest of you."

"That'll work." He flashes her his patented DiNozzo smile. "So for an old guy, is he any good?"

She punches him in the arm. "Ow." He rubs where her fist connected with his bicep.

Then she scandalized him, "Do you think I would have slept with him more than once if he wasn't?"


	8. Chapter 8

Dinner:

When Gibbs pulls into the parking lot at Ziva's apartment complex he spies DiNozzo's car. Since he heard Tony's rather cryptic message (Hi Boss. Something came up. I'll get the paperwork done this weekend. See you at Ziva's.) he figured the other man would be here. He looked annoyed when he told Tim that Tony had taken the afternoon off, but he wasn't. First of all, Tony and Ziva were partners and finding out what had happened with his partner should have been Tony's first responsibility. Second of all, with Tony gone he got almost a full afternoon's worth of work out of Tim.

Tony being here meant that he must know by now. Gibbs can imagine Ziva stretching out telling Tony to some degree, but six hours is a long time to have Tony hanging around begging for information.

Which means that he's very likely to walk into an awkward situation. He is still Tony's boss, and with any luck will be for some time. So he has to have some level of control and authority. But he's also the guy who's been messing around with Tony's partner, and as such he has to expect some level of older brother versus boyfriend from Tony, in which case the correct position is submissive.

Hell, this was much easier with Ducky. No need to walk any tightrope between postures with Duck, they are friends first, co-workers second, and always equals.

He decides that tonight Tony can have some leeway. He's just lost his partner, and it's Gibbs' fault. Monday (they are off this weekend) he'd better be back to being DiNozzo, Senior Field Agent, but still subordinate to Gibbs.

The next hurdle that hits Gibbs is Ziva's front door. Over the last three weeks they've just entered each other's home. Gibbs rarely locks his door, and Ziva keeps hers open when she expects him. But, does he want Tony to know that he just walks into Ziva's place? For that matter, when he and Ziva are together they're usually quite affectionate, to put it mildly. Does he want them to know that Ziva usually sits on his lap if they are both together, or that he has a tendency to pet her hair while she snuggles against him? Let alone the fact that she'll feed him tidbits of whatever she's cooking and he'll suck her finger clean. Does he want Tony, or anyone else for that matter, to see his intimate domestic life? Hell, does he even want them to know he has an intimate domestic life?

Worse, if he goes all stiff and distant on her, what will Ziva do? She'll understand; he's sure of that. More than any of his crew she gets the idea of what it means to be in charge, and the barriers involved in being The Boss. What he doesn't know is if she agrees. Will she decide that she doesn't care for those barriers, or that he doesn't need them, and plop herself into his lap?

He is standing in front of her door thinking of these things when Tony opens the door. Tony does not admit Gibbs into Ziva's place. Instead he closes the door, and motions for the two of them to walk together. Gibbs reminds himself of his decision to let Tony do this.

"Jethro." He doesn't think Tony has ever called him by his preferred name.

"Tony."

"I'll make this as quick and short as possible. If you make her ex-wife number four they'll never find all of your pieces."

Gibbs nods, he can respect that.

Tony goes a bit further, "In fact, I don't foresee Ziva ever being an ex-wife, a widow perhaps, but not an ex-wife."

"Noted." Between Tony and Ziva's Mossad Master of Assassins Dad, Gibbs realizes that this threat holds a lot more weight than the usual 'don't break my sister/daughter/friend's heart' line. Of course that would require either of those men getting to him before Ziva got done with him.

"Tony, this is Ziva we're talking about. Do you think she'd really leave me alive long enough for you to get a punch in?"

"Oh, I'm not saying I'm the one who will kill you. I'm sure she'll do that. I'm the one who will make sure she gets away with it clean." He's known Tony for almost eight years now, and he has never seen Tony more serious about anything.

Gibbs nods again. He's feeling very proud of Tony right now, and he desperately does not want to show it for fear Tony will find it condescending.

"Anything else?" Gibbs asks.

"Just one thing." Tony whacks Gibbs in the back of the head. "Also, if you stick me with Agent Jardine I might just have to resign. I want a partner who isn't afraid to touch a doorknob."

They are walking back toward Ziva's door. Tony opens it, which relieves Gibbs of one hurdle. But sets him up for the next, does he wrap Ziva in the embrace and kiss he usually greets her with, or leave it at something less passionate?

She takes the decision away from him by greeting him with a warm, but not sexual, hug and very brief kiss on the lips.

"Come into the kitchen, I want you to taste this before I put it out."

Her apartment smells good. Mostly he notices the smell of baking lasagna, but under it are bready tones, and something sweet.

"Tony, Palmer just called and Michelle will be coming, will you set another place?" Tony smirks at them, and then fetches another plate to the table. Meanwhile he follows her into the kitchen, where she does give him a proper kiss. The promise of post dinner fun lingers after her lips have moved off of his.

"I should have asked yesterday, how much of," she makes a kissing face, "do you want them to see?"

"Will it bother you if I say not much?"

"No. I could see how if it was just Ducky or Abby the rules might relax, but you want your private life private from Tony and Tim. That makes sense. After all, you are their boss. Jimmy and Michelle are in a gray area, they don't work directly for you, but they are part of the team, and you don't want them to gossip."

He pulls her into another kiss. None of his last three wives would have seen it that way, and he is grateful that this does not require an argument between them. Let alone the refrain of, 'Are you ashamed of me?' His lips go soft and playful on hers, an explicit promise of what will come when her guests leave.

He stops when he hears Tony say, "You're supposed to taste the food, not the cook!"

They break apart, and Ziva spears a mushroom on a fork, and hands it to him. "I bought more than were needed for the lasagna, so I gave these a quick sauté. Do they need more garlic?" He chews thoughtfully.

"No." He's not a huge fan of mushrooms, but these are pretty tasty. He spears another one from the pan where they are sizzling away. "Maybe more salt, but not much."

After years of Marine cooking, followed by more years of bachelor cop eating, she knows he likes his food saltier than most people. "I'll leave them as they are, there's a salt cellar on the table." She gives them another quick toss in the pan, and then empties them into a bowl.

He takes the bowl of mushrooms to the table, and snags one of the olives already waiting there. When it comes to salt, they are just right. He notices the bread on the table, and the candles. Some vague part of his memory adds these details to the fact that it's Friday, getting closer to sunset, and that he hasn't seen or smelled any meat since entering her home.

He pops back into the kitchen. "Are we doing Sabbath dinner?"

"Not really. The food's kosher and it's Friday night, but that's about it. I usually like to warn people ahead of time if I'm going to do a formal Shabbos. It lets those that want to bow out gracefully."

"Maybe next week then?" Both Ziva and Tony look at him with curiosity. Then she nods.

"If we can." She takes the lasagna out to cool. "So, good day at work?"

"Boring day at work. We filled out forms, lots and lots of forms."

"There's something to be said for being unemployed. No forms. Tony helped me to understand the American Male obsession with James Bond."

Gibbs gives Tony a look. "Very important, Boss, these are the kinds of things Ziva needs to know if she's going to start working for the FBI or CIA. They all want to be Bond over there."

Gibbs doesn't look like he buys it, but replies anyway, "Fast cars, faster women, and cool gadgets. What's to understand?"

"Why he isn't dead? He is not a very good spy. Everyone knows who he is and why he's there. The man has no cover. And, we only watched the one movie, but he's not a very good assassin either. If I was in charge of Russian intelligence Bond would be dead in a matter of minutes after I took over. Did you walk around Paris going, 'Gibbs, Jethro Gibbs?"

Tony looks hurt by Ziva's assessment of his hero. Gibbs smiles dryly, "I had somewhat better cover than that."

"I should think so. I have never been sent on an assignment where I didn't have at least three layers of protective identities, and in most cases they were useless because it was really just a matter of get in, do the job, and get out. If you did the job right no one ever knew you had been there, let alone any name you might have gone by…" She was warming up to the comparison of real assassins to James Bond when the doorbell rang.

Abby and Tim were standing on her doorstep. Tim held a bottle of wine, a nice merlot, (He had called ahead to find out what to bring.) and Abby had flowers. Real flowers, with colors, deep red mostly, but not a trace of black. Abby was almost vibrating with curiosity. Tim looked calmer, but deeply interested.

"So… when do we find out what this great secret is?" Abby asks as they enter the apartment.

"As soon as everyone is here and has a drink in hand."

"Then let's get some drinks poured," Tony says, tossing Tim a corkscrew.

Tim catches it neatly and goes to work on the bottle in his hand. He looks around the room, and sees Gibbs, Tony, and Abby nod. "Ziva?"

"Not for me." She holds up a glass with something pink in it. "I'm on a fruit juice kick today."

"This used to be fruit juice." Tim says.

"Not today." She shakes her head.

"OK."

Palmer and Lee enter shortly thereafter, a box of assorted cookies from the bakery near headquarters in Lee's hand. Ducky shows up last, with a small wrapped box in his hand. He hands it to Ziva, clasps her hand warmly in his, and whispers to her, "Open it later, it's for you and Jethro."

She gives him a curious look, but takes the box and assorted purses and jackets to her room. The box she places on her dresser. The jackets and purses go on the bed.

When she returns to her living room she sees that everyone has a drink and has started nibbling on the asparagus, olives, and mushrooms.

Abby spies her. "Well, come on, we've been waiting all day. What is it?"

They are all looking at her, curious expectation on the faces of everyone but Tony and Ducky. She has positioned herself so she stands next to Gibbs. She takes a deep breath, and then says, "I am not returning to NCIS because I am pregnant."

Abby lets out a shriek of joy, and then begins to babble, "Oh My God! This is so great! Congratulations! When are you due? Is it a boy or a girl? Do you know? Are you going to find out? A little baby David. Will it be a David, or will you use the father's name, or will you do one of those cool hyphen things? Who's the father? I can't wait to get your pictures up on my computer and see what baby David will look like in twenty years. Oh My God! This is so cool." Abby was literally bouncing with joy. Which was making it a bit harder to hug Ziva then was strictly necessary.

Tim was sitting in shocked silence. (This was going to make his next book that much more interesting, maybe five thousand more copies sold. Plot lines and dialog are already beginning to dance in his head.) Ducky had repeated Abby's congratulations, as had Palmer and Lee. (In a genuinely happy, but much less enthusiastic manner.)

When Abby paused to take a breath Lee added in, "You know you don't have to quit your job because you're pregnant. If anyone made you feel like you had to go we can sue them into next year. They legally can't make you leave."

"The only person making me leave is me. I know that I will not be able to do the job as well as I want to after a month or two."

Abby still has her arm around Ziva and is almost cuddling the other woman. "So, seriously, who's the lucky man? Do we know him? Are we going to get to know him?"

Ziva's known this was coming since yesterday, but still feels a second of apprehension before making her move. She reaches out one of her hands, and takes Gibbs'. For a second no one responds, for a second she's not sure anyone noticed what she's done. Then Gibbs lifts her hand to his lips and kisses the back of it. Abby lets out a squeal that makes the first one look mild, and throws herself into Gibbs' arms. Her happy babble is so fast and loud that no one has any idea what she is saying. The tone is ecstatic though.

This allows Ziva to see how the rest of the group is reacting. Tony and Ducky look calm, but they would, they already know. She's not sure what McGee is thinking. (There's at least twenty thousand more copies of the next book. My editor asked for something to appeal to women readers, this is certainly it! New, better plotlines, dialog and sex scenes dance in his head. He cannot wait to get to his typewriter.) But whatever it is, it doesn't look bad. Lee and Palmer are grinning. Probably relieved not to have had the only clandestine relationship in recent NCIS history.

When Abby finally lets Gibbs go, still babbling happily about the soon to be Gibbslet, Ziva gestures to the table. "Shall we eat?"

Four hours later dinner is over, the guests have gone home, and the kitchen is clean. Gibbs and Ziva are sitting on her couch, quiet and tired. Gibbs is thinking that all in all today has gone better than he had any right to hope for, let alone expect. Some of the dinner questions were a bit awkward: When did they start dating? (Tomorrow? Going out might be fun.) Were they going to get married? (Ummm… next question.) Names? (None yet. No Tony there will be no little Tony in this house. ) Last name? (See question number two.)

Ziva stretches out and lays her head in Gibbs' lap. He begins to absently stroke her hair.

"I was thinking that that had gone well."

He smiles at her. "Better than I had expected."

She yawns. "Ducky gave us a present. It's in the bedroom."

He smiles again, this time a hint of sex in his eyes. "How about we move in that direction?"

"Sounds good." She stands, stretches slowly, her shirt riding up exposing a currently flat tummy. He places a kiss on her belly button before standing himself. They walk quietly to her room. Once there he settles onto her bed, looking relaxed and comfortable. She grabs the box and joins him.

"Want to open it?" She offers it to him.

He shakes his head. "It's all yours."

She slits the paper with her finger, and slides the tiny box out. Inside is a small card which she hands to Gibbs. Ducky has interesting handwriting that she finds difficult to read. Below the card is a pair of the tiniest little green and gold argyle socks she has ever seen.

Gibbs chuckles, and then reads the card to her. "It's never too soon to learn to be Scottish."

Ziva has placed one sock on her first two fingers and the other sock on the last two. She's wiggling her fingers and looking at them like she's never seen a sock before. "Do they really start out that tiny?"

Gibbs looks at the socks, and nods. "Yep. When she was born Kelly's palm was the same size as my thumbnail."

"Could I see some pictures of her?"

Gibbs hasn't looked at her baby pictures in years. He has never shown them to any of his ex-wives, or for that matter let any of them know that he had a child who was murdered. He's hesitant now, not because of the pictures themselves, but because of how he reacts whenever he sees them. But, if there was ever a woman with a reason to want to see what a Gibbs kid looks like, Ziva would be her.

"The next time we're at my place." He leans towards her and kisses her softly on the forehead. She leans into him, twining her fingers in his hair.

The kiss is intensifying nicely, both of them pleasantly out of breath when Gibbs' phone begins to ring. She stiffens and he pulls back for a second. "We're off this weekend, it can wait," he says.

They return to kissing, but both are somewhat distracted, because despite Gibb's words both are very aware that it probably is work, and it probably is important.

And two minutes later, when his phone rings again, that suspicion is confirmed. With a few choice mumbled curses Gibbs answers. The half of the conversation Ziva hears does not bode well for any weekend plans they may have had.

When he hangs up he looks apologetically at her.

"Go." She says and kisses him one more time. "Call me when you're free and we'll finish this."

"Don't you want to know why?"

"Not right now, otherwise I will want to join you and help with the case. Tell me about it when you are done."

"OK." He kisses her again, and heads into the night.


	9. Chapter 9

Evil

Even though he considers traffic laws to be something that happens to other people, Gibbs rarely sees flashing red and blue lights in his rear view mirror. The reason for this is twofold. First of all he has federal plates, and no one on the Metro D.C. Police squad wants to be the guy who pulls over a drunken Kennedy, for starters that just about guarantees that next year's taxes get audited. So if you've got federal plates they try to avoid the car. Secondly he has a Marines bumper sticker, and many of the traffic cops in the Metro DC area are ex-military.

So, when he sees the flashing lights he knows that he's been driving like an absolute maniac.

Which just adds to the anger and frustration that he was trying to burn off by driving like a maniac in the first place.

When the officer asks for his license and registration, he also sees Gibbs' badge. The cop sighs. He's older and looks like he's been around for a while.

"Going to or coming from?"

"Coming from."

"That bad?"

"Worse."

"OK. Calm down. Sit on the shoulder for as long as it takes. When you get back on the road I want to see you doing the speed limit. The last thing you want to do is cause an accident to top off tonight."

Gibbs feels his hands tighten on the steering wheel in frustration. He wants to drive fast, very, very fast. He wants to get as far away from the last few hours as he can. But he knows the L.E.O. is right, and that he really shouldn't be tearing down I-95 at 132 miles an hour, even if it is four in the morning. Especially at four in the morning, other drivers aren't very sharp at this hour, and they could react badly to his car streaking towards them.

He looks up at the officer. "I've got it under control."

"Good. Think you'll get the guy?"

"Already got her."

"Oh. That kind of worse." The cop steps back. "Get home safely."

'That kind of worse.' Gibbs didn't know why that man ended up a traffic cop, but that comment told him that the traffic cop had been involved in real crime at some point in his career. He sat behind the wheel not sure what to do next. He didn't want to go home and work on his boat, his usual tonic for this kind of pain. If he put his hands on the boat he'd damage her, and that would just add to his anger.

He didn't want to go see Ziva. She'd still be asleep. Hell, she probably wouldn't be expecting to hear from him for at least a few more days. That's usually how cases went. Go to the scene, get the evidence, work flat out for a few days, and then slide back into low gear for the next however many days until the next case came up.

This one was different. The woman had called NCIS herself. She was sitting in the basement of her on base home waiting for them to arrive. In the basement were two dead bodies. The first one, a young teen with Down's syndrome, was her son. The second, an older teen, was the boy who had shot him. And she in turn had killed him.

When they arrived she pointed to her gun, laying neatly on the floor next to the older teen, and handed them a cell phone. On it was the video taken by the older teen. McGee had watched the contents with a look of profound horror. The first video was called 'Kill the Retard.' The second one was the actual killing.

He remembered Tim softly saying, "Oh, God…" And then Tim handed him the phone. He watched the first video, where the older teen talked about how he could get the boy, Samuel, to kill himself. How he'd convince Samuel to play Russian Roulette, but with a Glock.

"One in the chamber. First shot kills, retard's too dumb to know how it works…" He smiled obscenely as he waved the gun at the self held cell phone camera.

The second video showed Samuel, smiling, genuinely happy that someone from school had come to his house to play with him. He talked about how cool this game was, put the gun to his head, and pulled the trigger.

It took only a matter of minutes to get the rest of the story out of the mother. She had run down to see what had happened. Saw her son dead, saw the gun, and the smile on the older teen's face, and ran back up the stairs. She locked the older teen in the basement, got her gun, and killed him. She told them how Justin, the older boy, was part of a program at Sam's school where older "at risk" students were invited to help mentor and befriend younger students in the Special Needs program.

"I was so happy that he had a friend. I didn't think Justin could be trouble. What will I tell his father?" That was the last thing she said before they took her to the lock-up.

And now Gibbs is stuck with the image of that woman, her life shattered because some evil bastard had decided it would be fun to kill her son. He had spent an hour filling out the forms, and then placed the call he was dreading to a man in Afghanistan.

Usually at the end of the case there was a feeling of satisfaction, a feeling of peace. But this case, hell, you couldn't really call it a case, this tragedy, there was no satisfaction, no peace. That woman was going to spend at least a few weeks in jail while everything got processed, and best case scenario she'd be out of prison by 2015.

And if it went to trial he'd have to testify for the prosecution, even though she'd done exactly the same thing he had done. The absolutely correct, morally proper, and totally illegal, thing.

And now what he really wants to do is find a way to kill this case. Make some sort of terrible error to make sure she gets released. But, by now it's out of his hands, and there is nothing he can do to kill this case, no way to make it go away.

He jerks his car across two empty lanes of traffic, taking the exit that will allow him to turn around and go to Ziva's home. He still doesn't want to wake her up, but maybe if he enters quietly, just getting to watch her sleep will help. Let him think about something other than that poor woman.

He isn't very aware of the miles sliding away between him and her. And when he does get to her apartment he begins to feel more at ease. The anger is still there, but some of the frustration is ebbing. He tries the door, finds it locked, and picks it quickly. He pauses for a moment, wondering if sneaking into her house is a good idea, not just because he is uninvited, but because he's not sure if shocking her out of her sleep is conductive to a long and healthy life for him.

He splits the difference. He enters quietly, but before getting to her bedroom he says, "Ziva?"

He does not hear any response, so he creeps to her room, once again saying her name softly from the doorway.

She stirs but does not wake. He's surprised, she had been a light sleeper the last few times he slept over at her place, but then remembers that she's pregnant, so she'll sleep harder than usual.

He strips out of his clothing and slips into her bed, taking a moment to snuggle close to her.

"Gibbs?" Ziva says, three quarters asleep.

"Go back to sleep. I'll tell you about it in the morning." She's asleep again before he's finished the sentence. He smells her hair, wondering how it is that something this simple makes him feel so much better. It's been a long time since wrapping himself around a woman quieted the anger, and he welcomes it, and with it sleep.


	10. Chapter 10

The Dream

He's home. But not his current home. His home at Lejeune. In the comfortable living room, filled with furniture he had made for them. He was sitting in the rocking chair he had made for Shannon after Kelly was born and it became clear how handy a rocking chair would be. Then Shannon is sitting in his lap. And, because this is a dream he knows why she is here, and what he needs to ask.

"Was I a good husband to you?"

Shannon smiled warmly at him. "To me. You were a good father too."

"I was gone a lot."

"You were an active duty Marine. It comes with the package."

"So what happened with the other three?"

Shannon looked sadly at him. Then she gave him a gentle smack on the back of the head. "Have you ever looked at pictures of all four of us at once? Laid them down next to each other?"

"No." He looked confused, why would he do something like that? Hell, did he even have any pictures of Stephanie? They were only married fourteen months, seven of which he was on a battleship in the Med.

"You should. I think you'd see it if you just looked."

"See what?"

"Jethro, you married me, and we had a great eleven years. Maybe not an easy eleven years, but they were great. Then you married three women who looked and sounded as much like me as you could find. But they weren't me, and you weren't going to get our marriage back by trying to find clones of me."

He didn't say anything, but his dream self was surprised to see that what she said was true, and shocked that he had never seen it before.

"Honey, you aren't going to get me again. You won't get Kelly back either. But if you'd stop trying to get the impossible, you might have a good chance at a lasting marriage. At least this one gets it. She understands the need to solve the crimes, and the late hours, and the fact that this is something you just can't let slide. She gets it because she feels it too. That'll save you more grief than anything else. I don't think the last three got it, not really. Plus this one knew you as Gibbs first, without your traditional Mr. Charm dating approach. She won't be shocked when you're grumpy and pre-occupied."


End file.
